Life of Pie
by skag trendy
Summary: Dean's not a happy bunny right now, and things just turn outright ridiculous when Sam tries to cheer him up. With pie. Set in no particular season. Hurt Sam/Big brother Dean.


**Life of Pie**

A completely unbeta'd little ficlet I dreamed up the other night. All mistakes are mine.

**Dean's not a happy bunny right now, and things just turn outright ridiculous when Sam tries to cheer him up.**

**With pie.**

Set in no particular season.

Just a little humour and Hurt Sam to lighten me up a bit while I'm in the middle of writing a rather dark fic – to be posted next year.

Warning: language, suggestion of violent cat sex (not the boys and NOT bestiality).

An over all stupid, stupid, _stupid_ story, but I don't care, 'cos I had a lot of fun with this.

No cats were harmed either before, during or after the writing of this fic.

No cats were actually raped, either, except perhaps by other cats in the story - so, ya know, not real in any way, shape or form.

Cat scenes inspired by The U.S Office (involving Angela's $7000 cat, Princess Lady) and Nanny Ogg's cat, Greebo, in Sir Terry Pratchett's Discworld series.

And just to warn you in case you didn't know: I'm a little bit nuts.

It's absolutely true. I can prove it, in fact:

_**Blah, blah, poobles, bum, willy, toilet, and wibble to you too, Mr Big Bearded, Bonking Butch Oscar.**_

_**Oh, and just so you know? Mr Flibble is very cross.**_

_**Cake anyone?**_

See? Completely insane. It's just been that sort of year.

Now I've got that off my chest, on with the fun…

* * *

Sam spotted the pie shop and sauntered on over, hopeful eyes searching the window display.

Dean was hungry for pie. Dean was _always_ hungry for pie, and these days Sam was hungry for peace and quiet. The last two times he'd gone out for food the pie hunt had been unsuccessful, resulting in a sulky, pouting big brother. Honestly, it was like living with a five year old.

There was also the small matter of a graveyard salt and burn from the previous night. Sam, as always, won the easy look out post by a simple round of 'rock, paper, scissors', leaving all the digging to his brother, and Dean hadn't quite finished bitching about his so called 'broken back'.

Sam eyed the apple and raspberry pie with a smile.

It was perfect. A beautiful, mouth watering crust topped with meringue and caramelised brown sugar. Even Sam was tempted by it.

Movement behind the glass caught his attention. A plump, attractive, middle aged woman, wearing a pink frilly apron and greying hair trapped under a net, bustled over to the display. She was clearly talking to someone else in the shop and didn't notice the slowly waning smile on Sam's face as she carefully picked up the pie… his pie. _Dean's _pie… and carried it over to a cake box waiting on the counter. She chatted with her customer as she packaged it up and wrapped it in a bright green bow, then took the proffered money.

The customer, an elderly gentleman with a walking cane, smiled and nodded on his way out, barely sparing a glance at the young guy standing at the window with an acutely sad, kicked puppy look on his face.

Sam huffed, made up his mind that it wouldn't hurt to ask anyway, and caught the door before it swung shut. Stepping inside the shop, he stared all around him.

It was a pie enthusiast's wet dream, though Sam inwardly grimaced at the rather – ha! - unsavoury analogy.

There was chocolate cream, custard, lemon pavlova, French style strawberry and pear tart glazed in caramel, and a whole host of others he'd never even heard of.

Sam closed his mouth before he could drool all over the floor.

"Can I help you?" Pie lady asked, pleasant enough but eyeing him a little suspiciously, as she would all strange young men who ventured into her little shop.

"Hi there," Sam replied, shyly, and instantly the woman's eyes softened. He fixed her with his friendliest, most innocent and hopeful expression. "I was wondering… _hoping_ you might have another apple and raspberry pie left?" He cast sad eyes at the door. "It looked delicious."

The woman relaxed a little further. "That was the last one, I'm afraid, but I have another batch in the oven. Be ready in a half hour or so if you want to come back."

She smiled indulgently when Sam brightened up like a little boy offered free candy.

"Really? That's great… uh…" he fished a twenty from his jeans pocket and handed it over. "Could I reserve one, just in case? My brother will kill me if I don't get him some freshly baked pie."

"Sure thing, hon," she told him, laughing, but waved away the money. "Pay when you collect. I'll put one aside for you."

"Thank you, m'am," he murmured, gratefully.

He bade her goodbye and left moments later, grinning from ear to ear and feeling absurdly pleased with himself.

All because of pie.

Dean was going to bow down and worship at Sam's feet for this day's work.

Sam was the Pie Giver.

The Pie _King_.

Sam Winchester, King of Pie.

Sam snorted to himself, pulled out his cell phone and left a quick voicemail for his brother to join him at a coffee house down the street.

"I might have a surprise for you, so don't be late," he finished, pocketed his phone again, and set out with a slight bounce in his step.

It was kind of ironic that a guy as tall as Sam didn't notice the flower pot, knocked off its perch three stories up by an unsuspecting cat, plummeting down on him at speed.

Ironic, and unfortunate.

Sam slumped to the sidewalk amid shards of terracotta and startled passersby, instantly unconscious and bleeding from the head, face and neck.

The cat's disinterested stare lasted a mere moment before it moved on, sunlight catching its shiny black fur every now and then. It was a very busy cat, after all.

Mice catching, general raping and pillaging, and the requisite crapping on gravel driveways - not to mention getting shot at by the annoyed home owners - was a time consuming job.

It slunk away onto the roof tops, silent as a fart in a crowded lift, and went in search of something to eat, fight or screw, in no particular order of preference.

On the street below, a horrified audience had gathered around Sam's bloodied and unmoving form.

* * *

Dean grumbled his way out of their motel room, rubbing his back, and scowling deeply. To say he was in a shitty mood didn't quite cover it, and the last thing he felt like doing was spending the day with smug, geekboy extraordinaire. Sam had left a short time ago in search of coffee, pie request ringing in his ears, while Dean stayed in to compensate his cramping muscles and bruised spine.

Damn kid had probably forgotten his pie again, anyhow, and Dean needed to stretch his legs.

Whisky. Poker. Hot women. Greasy burger with extra onions. Not necessarily in that order.

It didn't occur to him that his own life choices were, at that very moment, also undergoing serious debate by a flower pot-killing cat on a roof top somewhere.

Dean's brother might have appreciated the comparison, but it would not have made up for being cracked on the head.

Checking his phone out of habit, Dean's scowl deepened if at all possible. Sam had left him a voicemail message, presumably while he was unknotting his back under a hot shower, but he ignored it, happy to remain in his belligerent grump, and made his way cautiously to the nearest watering hole.

"What the hell?" he mumbled and stopped to stare at the scene ahead.

There was a disturbance on the street that had Dean growling with frustration. His simple plan to get shitfaced, and incidentally drown out his aches and pains, were in serious danger of being thwarted, because it seemed he would have to fight his way to the bar. Standing between him and non-prescription liquid pain relief, was an ambulance blocking the path and a growing crowd of worried spectators spilling out onto the road. Clearly, whoever had been hurt was causing quite a stir.

As he passed on by, dodging the curious onlookers, Dean glanced over at the paramedics with only a vague interest. There were two of them; one was crouched down and talking quietly to the unfortunate victim of what appeared to be a flower pot attack, presumably trying to rouse him. The other was checking the patient's blood pressure and fixing a clear, plastic mask over his mouth and nose. There was also a worrying amount of blood splattered all over the pavement and pot fragments.

Finally, Dean's attention was drawn to the guy on the ground, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Sammy?" he breathed, coming to a dead stop.

His little brother was sprawled face down in the recovery position with a thick, white collar fastened round his neck. His shaggy, brown hair was matted and darkened with blood, his jacket and shirt also stained by it. Worst of all, there was no sign of movement. Sam was out cold.

"Sam?" Dean yelled out this time and broke into a run, feeling his own heart pounding with fear.

He shouldered his way through everyone on the road and sidewalk, and dropped down on his knees, a hand gently landing on Sam's back.

"Sir? Please stay back…"

Dean barely heard one of the medic's through the haze of panic and had no intention of staying back until he was satisfied that Sam was at least alive.

"Sammy, c'mon, little brother," he whispered, anxiously eyeing Sam's grey face and almost bloodless lips under the mask. "Wake up, now. Everything's gonna be ok."

"Sir, you can't…" the paramedic tried again, this time putting a restraining hand on Dean's arm, but Dean forcefully shrugged him off and sent forth a glare that promised violence if he touched him again.

"He's my kid brother!" he hissed. "I need to be here, _Sam_ needs me to be here!"

The medic backed off a little with a slow nod and both hands held up in a placating manner. "Fair enough, sir, but we're moving Sam into the ambulance now, ok? He's lost a lot of blood and has a serious head injury."

Dean stared at the medic then glanced hopefully at Sam, as if his brother would wake up and tell him it was all a joke, that the medics, the oxygen mask, the gurney now being unfolded from the ambulance, was all completely unnecessary, that he was fine and they could lit on out of town for their next hunt.

But Sam didn't wake up or even so much as twitch.

"Sir?" the medic tried again, more kindly this time, but with a tinge of desperation. "Please? Sam should be in hospital, and I need you to stand aside so we can get him there quickly." Seeing that the older brother was about to cave, he added in an incentive. "You can ride with us if you wish, but for your brother's sake stay out of our way so we can help him, are we clear on that?"

Coming out of his panic stricken fog, Dean nodded jerkily, gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze, rose and stepped back.

He watched as Sam was rolled over onto the gurney, and bit back a gasp. More blood spilled from a cut scarily close to the kid's neck, where a large shard of terracotta was wedged firmly in place.

"We got a large fragment possibly penetrating his collar bone, but it's hard to say how deep it's gone," the second medic was saying to his colleague while he checked the wound. "He probably landed on it when he fell."

"Aren't you gonna remove that?" asked Dean, averted his eyes from the scary sight and kept them fixed on Sam's pale face.

"No way, man," the medic didn't look up from his work when he answered, just carried on securing Sam to the gurney, taking care not to jostle him too much. "There's a chance that fragment is keeping your brother from bleeding out. The surgeon in the OR will deal with this."

"We ready?" his partner called out.

"Yup, let's go!"

* * *

Dean rubbed his eyes, tiredly.

What a week. Of all the shitty things to happen… and it had to go and happen to _Sam_.

What was he thinking? Of _course _it would happen to Sam. Sam was a walking disaster magnet and had been since he was old enough to stand up straight and work a light switch.

The kid had spent a good part of four days virtually comatose before he came round. Understandably groggy and disoriented, he was at least out of danger. Careful surgery had removed the shard from near his collar bone, leaving a painful but surprisingly minor wound to tend, and a couple of weeks wearing a dark blue support sling. To the surprise of his doctor, Sam had also escaped serious complications of his head injury; no fracture, just ten stitches and one mean mother of a concussion.

Now, another two days on, Sam was far more coherent and Dean should have felt fully justified in unleashing all kinds of hell on the kid for scaring the living crap out of him.

He'd spent hours thinking up all manner of petty taunts and nicknames to blast Sam with, and it would've been sooo much fun, had it not been for a visit from the local pie shop owner the night before the kid woke up.

A pie shop owner who just happened to be bearing a belated gift from his little brother.

Her sweet, heart warming tale of Sam coming into her shop to order a pie especially for him, had forced Dean to grudgingly abandon his revenge.

"I brought Sam's pie here a couple of days ago, just in case he woke up, but they wouldn't let me in to see you boys until Sam was out of intensive care," she'd explained with a sad smile. "So I baked this one special as a gift to _you_," she'd nodded at Dean, then gestured to Sam with gentle a nod "from _him_."

It was the best pie ever, so much so that Dean almost wept with gratitude, and even saved a good slice of it for his little brother.

He'd have had to be a real bastard to haul Sammy over the coals after this... right?

"Only you, Sammy," he muttered and glared helplessly at the kid. "Only you could get taken down by a rogue flower pot. Seriously, dude. What'd you do to piss it off? Threaten it with a mallet? Set a triffid on it?"

Sam regarded him with narrow eyes. "Screw you, Dean," he whispered back, fighting a smile.

The bed creaked slightly while he shifted into a more comfortable position and his face scrunched up briefly.

"You ok?" Dean sat forward in his seat, immediately all attentive and worried when Sam hissed in pain. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine, dude. Just a little sore."

"You sure?" asked Dean, frowning at the kid. "Don't lie to me, Sammy."

Sam eyed him, warily. _Here goes. _"Neck hurts. Feels like some kind of whiplash, I think, from when the pot landed on my head... _don't you dare laugh!_"

"I'm not laughing," Dean replied, innocently, and bit down on his bottom lip, trying to hold in a smirk. As much as he was concerned by Sam's pale features, and he sure as hell hated seeing the poor kid in pain, the chuckle found its way out against his will and turned into full on raucous laughter.

"M'sorry," he mumbled, trying to tamp it down. "But _dude_. We took down a werewolf last month, a wendigo before that… but you…" he shook his head, snorting helplessly. "_You_… a friggin _flower pot?_"

Sam sighed and slumped against his pillows, a tired smile finally working its way onto his face. "I guess it _is_ pretty ridiculous, man. I mean, if our next hunt finds out about this, I'm fucking toast!"

Dean couldn't help it, now. He practically yelled with laughter and barely managed to rein it back in when he saw Sam wince.

Clearing his throat, Dean lifted a shaky hand up to gently palm the kid's bandaged head.

"Sorry Sam. Seriously," he told him, but his mouth was still quivering with amusement. He licked his lips, reaching for some semblance of control.

Mirth was going head to head with the protective big brother instincts in a full on bitch fight, and Dean was determined not to cause Sam any more pain. Instead, he forced himself to picture his little brother, lying prone and vulnerable on the sidewalk, head split open and bleeding. The image soon sobered him up again.

His smirk faded and he gazed at Sammy for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry I ignored your message, dude," he murmured, awkwardly. "Maybe if I'd listened to it earlier and left the room right away, this wouldn't have happened."

Sam made the puppy dog eyes at him.

"Did you even check the time of that voicemail?" he asked him, softly. "It was literally seconds before I hit the deck. You couldn't have known it was going to happen and you sure as hell couldn't have stopped it, ok? You'd never have gotten there on time. It wasn't your fault, dude. Just plain old bad luck."

"Sammy…" Dean closed his eyes for a second and took a faltering breath. "When I saw you lying there, I thought… God! I thought you were dead! There was so much blood, and you weren't moving…"

"Head wounds nearly always look worse than they really are, Dean," said Sam, quietly confident. "You know that. Seen it enough times. We _both_ have."

Dean nodded, feeling only marginally better. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," he looked at his brother and smiled. "By the way, thanks for the pie."

Sam frowned. "Pie? What pie?" then it dawned on him. "Oh! Yeah, in all the flower pot related excitement I'd forgotten about that." He peered shyly up at Dean, a tentative smile on his face. "Was it as good as it looked?"

Dean's smile kicked up to a full on satisfied grin. "Better," he said, laughing. "I ordered another one."

Sam seemed to relax a little. "So I'm forgiven for the whole graveyard thing?"

"Dude," Dean sighed and patted Sam's good shoulder. "You won fair and square, ok? There's nothing to forgive, but that pie was totally worth a broken back!"

"Broken back…" Sam muttered, rolling his eyes good naturedly. "You're _such_ a friggin' drama queen."

Dean chuckled, scratched the back of his head and fidgeted a little. "Uh," he said. "I saved you some by the way. Ya know, in case you hadn't gotten to try it yet. Pie Lady told me she'd sold the last one when you stopped by and put in an order, so," he shrugged, nonchalantly. "It's back in our motel room fridge."

Sam smiled, gratefully. "Thanks dude. You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, well…" Dean's voice trailed off as he began glancing round the room, maintaining the casual air of indifference, but Sam wasn't fooled. While they were growing up, Dean shared practically everything with his kid brother except pie. He would buy a separate one, perhaps, if Sam insisted on trying it, but he rarely ever shared _his _pie, except on special occasions or to cheer Sammy up when he was sick.

Ya see, Dean isn't just a pie enthusiast.

He's a Godammed _fanatic_.

The brothers cleared their throats and sniffed, chick-flick moment over, never to be repeated.

"So, I'm about ready to get the hell out of here," said Sam, shoving back the blankets with his good arm.

"Whoa, Sam, I don't think so!" Dean exclaimed, hovering anxiously over his brother with both hands out, ready to catch him. And a good job too, it seemed, because the minute Sam was on his feet he swayed dangerously, and the blood drained from his face, leaving it washed out and even more pale than before, if possible.

Grasping Sam under the arms and gently dumping him back on the bed; Dean crouched down to Sam's eye level. The lecture was primed and ready to fire, and Sam was going to hear it whether he wanted to or not.

"You have a concussion," said Dean, counting off on his fingers. "You have more stitches in your grapefruit than a porcupine has spines. You got a hole in your neck…"

"Shoulder," Sam interrupted, muttering petulantly and fiddling with his sling.

"Whatever!" Dean cut him off with a glare. "You're not going anywhere, so suck it up and get back in bed."

Sam bristled, squared up and went nose to nose with his brother, glaring at him heatedly.

"Make me," he growled. It was sneaky, but Sam knew Dean wouldn't risk hurting him, not when he was already injured.

Dean said nothing, just raised an eyebrow. He stared at Sam for a second, then nodded, stepped back and waited, arms folded across his chest.

Sam eyed him suspiciously but gathered his dignity and stood up more slowly this time. Dean's point was made within seconds when the room once again began to spin. Sam was immediately overwhelmed and his vision began to fade.

"Uh… Dean… s'goin' all bl-black…" he slurred out, fairly sure he was about to topple over.

Strong arms wrapped around him again, and Sam felt himself hoisted back onto the bed.

"Dude, when you gonna learn, huh?" he heard Dean mutter softly in his ear and his legs were repositioned under the sheets.

Sam's cracked open his eyes, relieved to see the blackness around the edges of his vision crawling back. "The twelfth of never?"

Dean snorted. "That's figures." He tucked the blankets back in around the kid and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Get some sleep, and if you're feeling better in the morning, we'll leave, ok? But for now, be a good boy, or no pie!"

"Pie freak," Sam whispered, good naturedly.

Dean shook his head. "Oh, _I'm_ the freak. This coming from The Flower Pot Boy." He chuckled and gently ran a hand over Sam's bandaged head. "Now, _go to sleep, _dude."

Sam closed his eyes and gratefully entered the Land of Nod without passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars. He would later remember strange dreams about cats.

Dean rolled his shoulders, cracked his back a little, and decided to stretch out on the nearby chair. Removing his boots and lifting sock-clad feet to rest on Sam's bed, he glanced at the sleeping kid, feeling kind of tired himself after everything.

"Guess I might as well join you," he said, and settled down for the night. "Got nothing better to do. 'Night Sammy."

He was rewarded with a short, rasping snore and what sounded suspiciously like "_G'night… pie face_…"

Dean glared at him. "Stupid kid."

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

The black cat padded to the end of the balcony and sat, watching the world below, tail curling languorously in the cool night air. It had been a good week, over all. As distractions go, the incident with the flower pot a few days previously had been a godsend. Even now, there was a very confused pie shop owner, wondering where her very own chocolate pie had disappeared to. When the commotion began outside, she'd left it sitting on the work top, all on its own, lonely and just _begging_ to be eaten.

The cat licked his paws and purred contentedly. He'd been back every day since, stealing in through a carelessly left open window, or sneaking by the front entrance whenever a customer came or went.

Tonight's menu had consisted of a whole cherry pie and a quart of thick, luscious cream.

Pie was heaven.

There was nothing so great as pie.

And now the cat was in the mood for something else…

Movement from above caught his eye and he stilled, black coat making him almost invisible in the shadows. A fluffy white cat strolled along the roof tops, oozing importance, head held high, eyes half closed, regal as the Queen of England.

The black cat narrowed its eyes, watching carefully. He knew this visitor. Every cat did.

She was from three blocks away, a long haired, pedigree breed belonging to the local high court judge. She was easily recognised by the expensive black leather and diamante collar, and well known around the neighbourhood as spoilt, selfish, downright rude, and hated by all.

_No one would dare touch me_, she seemed to say to the world. _I am untouchable._

The black cat lived for a challenge.

_Oh really? We'll soon see, Princess…_

He leapt soundlessly off the balcony and headed towards the newcomer, licking his lips.

The hissing and screeching began soon after, and several bedroom windows were slammed shut against the noise of the two cats' rambunctious mating.

A few minutes later, the black cat scurried away from the scene of his crime, covered in scratches and bite marks but quietly smug nonetheless.

The white cat, however, stalked off, spitting mad and not so quietly pregnant.

That was two other activities he could tick off his list of favourite things to do of an evening; the fighting and the screwing, all in one. He loved a cat with spirit.

Yes. It had been a very satisfactory week for the black cat, injuries aside, and now he was going to find a nice gravel surface, because there was nothing like a good post-coital dump to finish off a fruitful night.

He stretched, yawned and considered his options.

_Hmmm. I wonder if Princess has a gravel driveway…_

He let out a lazy _meeooowwww _and meandered away over the roof tops to investigate_._

It's a cat's life, after all.

Perfected by pie.

"_**... He's a fat, cunning, evil smelling, multiple rapist."**_

_**Granny Weatherwax describing Greebo the Cat.**_

_**The End.**_

* * *

_**A/N: See? Insane. Can't say I didn't warn you. Professor Fruitloop has not only entered the building, but eaten all your food, drunk all your beer, and blocked up your toilet.**_

_**Hope you enjoyed it and didn't take it too seriously... that means no picking holes or any shit like that. Be nice.**_

_**Dark fic to follow in the New Year.**_

_**Tomorrow, I'm off to Los Angeles to spend Christmas with my sister and her family, so I'll try to answer your reviews for this when I get back in a couple of weeks. **_

_**A very Merry Christmas to you all.**_

_**Love and hugs,**_

_**ST xxx**_


End file.
